26th of Saun, Arc 716
He felt lost. The man had been thrown away from what he knew into an unknown territory. He left his sister behind in the blaze, doing nothing more than creating a rift to attempt to drown out the flames. He'd gone on an absurd tirade against Duncan, pushing away the only man he'd been able to go to as of late.
He'd begun to isolate himself from Damien and the Coven. Damien, despite all he'd gone through with Alistair, had presented a sense of urgency that the mage was terrified of. He wished to enact plans to kill Ellasin soon, fearing that she'd begun to uncover his disloyalty.
The pressure was on. Everything was changing for Alistair. Life had gone from typical to atypical in but a season, and a short one at that. All that he was used to - everything he'd known - had been confined to short breaths where a wider swath was thrown at him from unknown territory. Many great confusions had whipped into his conscious mind. Love, sadness, anger, despondency.
Much of this influx had been due to one particular individual, and around him, strangely the sociopath wasn't quite a sociopath anymore. Not really. He couldn't classify himself the same way. Alistair very consistently felt things when he was around him. He'd felt joy, mostly, but other things too.
Their argument trickled anger and disappointment. He'd even experienced jealousy upon seeing anything he'd described as coyness with others. It was all the unknown from here. The mage understood next to nothing about the life he'd begun to lead. It was new, dangerous territory, that he'd never trained himself for because he never imagined it would come to be.
This new life was a mockery of the old. Instead of the meticulous calculations that raced through his mind upon all hours, he found himself thinking upon very silly and arbitrary things. Will Duncan like this color? he would ask himself. Should my smile look more charming? Should my voice be more 'suave'? And that was merely the tip of the iceberg. Questions from every alleyway reigned over him.
Does he like me the same way I like him? Does he notice when I look good? Does he understand how important he is to me? Will he judge me? Is he impressed with me? Have I lost my grace with him? Will he find his pleasures in another?
. . .
It was juvenile. He knew it was. As much as the man had brought him joy, a level of worry came to be. He was not all that young in reality, but in the life of romance he was. This was the first one he'd ever had, and so the Alistair that would have emerged at the age of thirteen instead arrived over a decade late to pester and ridicule him for everything he did.
It had brought fear upon him. It had brought derangement. Malice, against himself nonetheless. Everything had to be about Duncan in his life - he had no control over himself anymore. It was suffocating as much as it was wondrous. It was the life of love that others lived that he had avoided - Alistair had always been in control of his own emotions, his own happiness. Perhaps that was why - until recently - he was content not to feel them, as he could not be dissuaded from his goals by such arbitrary things.
But here he was - fawning over a man, breaking his heart, and inevitably burying himself beneath his blanket and having a tearful night. He did cry, for some time in fact. He mourned for all of the love he'd lost. The beauty he'd thrown away.
In his dream, too, he cried. He buried his face into his arms against his desk, in the office of Sabaissmais. His hospital, where he'd made his career dreams a reality. Where he'd had his first intimate moments with Duncan. He could only bury himself despondently into his skin and wish that it had all gone better - that he'd never said the things that he did.
He felt lost. The man had been thrown away from what he knew into an unknown territory. He left his sister behind in the blaze, doing nothing more than creating a rift to attempt to drown out the flames. He'd gone on an absurd tirade against Duncan, pushing away the only man he'd been able to go to as of late.
He'd begun to isolate himself from Damien and the Coven. Damien, despite all he'd gone through with Alistair, had presented a sense of urgency that the mage was terrified of. He wished to enact plans to kill Ellasin soon, fearing that she'd begun to uncover his disloyalty.
The pressure was on. Everything was changing for Alistair. Life had gone from typical to atypical in but a season, and a short one at that. All that he was used to - everything he'd known - had been confined to short breaths where a wider swath was thrown at him from unknown territory. Many great confusions had whipped into his conscious mind. Love, sadness, anger, despondency.
Much of this influx had been due to one particular individual, and around him, strangely the sociopath wasn't quite a sociopath anymore. Not really. He couldn't classify himself the same way. Alistair very consistently felt things when he was around him. He'd felt joy, mostly, but other things too.
Their argument trickled anger and disappointment. He'd even experienced jealousy upon seeing anything he'd described as coyness with others. It was all the unknown from here. The mage understood next to nothing about the life he'd begun to lead. It was new, dangerous territory, that he'd never trained himself for because he never imagined it would come to be.
This new life was a mockery of the old. Instead of the meticulous calculations that raced through his mind upon all hours, he found himself thinking upon very silly and arbitrary things. Will Duncan like this color? he would ask himself. Should my smile look more charming? Should my voice be more 'suave'? And that was merely the tip of the iceberg. Questions from every alleyway reigned over him.
Does he like me the same way I like him? Does he notice when I look good? Does he understand how important he is to me? Will he judge me? Is he impressed with me? Have I lost my grace with him? Will he find his pleasures in another?
. . .
It was juvenile. He knew it was. As much as the man had brought him joy, a level of worry came to be. He was not all that young in reality, but in the life of romance he was. This was the first one he'd ever had, and so the Alistair that would have emerged at the age of thirteen instead arrived over a decade late to pester and ridicule him for everything he did.
It had brought fear upon him. It had brought derangement. Malice, against himself nonetheless. Everything had to be about Duncan in his life - he had no control over himself anymore. It was suffocating as much as it was wondrous. It was the life of love that others lived that he had avoided - Alistair had always been in control of his own emotions, his own happiness. Perhaps that was why - until recently - he was content not to feel them, as he could not be dissuaded from his goals by such arbitrary things.
But here he was - fawning over a man, breaking his heart, and inevitably burying himself beneath his blanket and having a tearful night. He did cry, for some time in fact. He mourned for all of the love he'd lost. The beauty he'd thrown away.
In his dream, too, he cried. He buried his face into his arms against his desk, in the office of Sabaissmais. His hospital, where he'd made his career dreams a reality. Where he'd had his first intimate moments with Duncan. He could only bury himself despondently into his skin and wish that it had all gone better - that he'd never said the things that he did.
